


Counting Down to Midnight

by mosylu



Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Cisco is Space Cinderella, F/M, also protocol and etiquette are very important okay, and he needs to find a consort by midnight, apologies for any inaccuracies regarding the moons of Jupiter, written for AUgust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-15
Updated: 2018-08-15
Packaged: 2019-06-27 17:01:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15689646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mosylu/pseuds/mosylu
Summary: Some would say it's like a fairy tale - a humble mechanic, raised out of obscurity to become the king of a rich and glittering moon.Some would be out of their ever-lovin' minds.





	Counting Down to Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> written for AUgust prompts: "royalty"

Cisco leaned on the windowsill, watching ships of various sizes circle the palace as they waited for their turn to land. They clustered in the sky like fireflies, more joining them every moment as they came in through the atmosphere shield. Usually it wasn’t this crowded, but tonight was special.

Tonight was the Heir’s Ball, and in about five hours, at midnight, the heir to the throne of Cendrillon would announce his choice of consort in preparation for taking the crown next week.

The bulk of Jupiter hung low in the sky, hulking and familiar. Cisco had seen it every day of his life, locked in the same place overhead. But here on Cendrillon, it rose and set like the sun. In a few hours, it would slide beneath the horizon, leaving the sky open, filled with stars.

Three months ago, he would have been wild with delight at the idea of actually being able to see the whole sky in person. Now the starfield looked like a yawning chasm, and he found himself clutching the windowsill so he wouldn’t fall off into it.

“Son,” he muttered, “you’re a long way from Ganymede.”

The knock sounded at the door, and Cisco called, “Come in.”

A pause, and he knew he’d done something wrong. Again.

He heaved a sigh and turned on his heel. “What?” he said. “Am I not supposed to let you come in when you knock? Are you supposed to be turned away twice before I permit you into my royal presence?”

Lady Caitlin Snow glided in. She paused, spread her silky skirts wide, and lowered herself in a curtsy that seemed like an impossible feat of balance. Her back was as straight as a ruler, her high-piled hair tipped forward, the mechanics of her change in elevation hidden beneath her skirts. “Your Majesty,” she said rather pointedly.

“Madam,” he grumbled - the most informal acknowledgement he could get away with, and that only in private.

The greetings out of the way, she rose as gracefully as she’d sunk, and said, “I didn’t say any of that.”

“You were thinking it.”

“I would merely advise cultivating a more dignified response when you don’t know who’s on the other side of the door.”

“When you met me, I was head down in a land speeder with grease on my nose. Whatever made you think I was capable of dignity?”

She folded her hands in her skirts and said serenely, “I have faith that you could do anything you set your mind to, sire.”

He suppressed another snort, which might have been too close to a yawp of terror.

_Sire._

The first time she’d called him that, in his garage in Ganymede City, he’d been involved in scrubbing grease off his hands, and had to turn off the sonar cleaner to say, “What?”

_“Sire,” she said patiently._

_“Who are you again?”_

_“Lady Caitlin Snow, the Royal Protocol Mistress to the court of Cendrillon.”_

_“Cendrillon,” he repeated. “Wait, isn’t that the moon that had the big spaceship crash last month? And the whole royal family snuffed it?”_

_“Along with seventeen other people,” she said. “The_ Accelerator _. Yes.”_

_“Sorry about that,” he said, because a disaster like that had to royally suck, no pun intended. He decided not to ask about the Sire thing, because everyone knew Cendrillites, besides being insular and mysterious, were weird and old-fashioned. And the Royal Protocol Mistress would be even weirder and more old-fashioned than most. Jupiter’s balls, she’d fuckin’_ curtsied _to him when she’d walked in. “So how can I help you, Miss Snow?”_

_“I am properly addressed as ‘my lady’, 'your ladyship,’ or Lady Snow,” she corrected him. “And you can come back to Cendrillon with me to assume the throne.”_

_After several moments, he said, “I think you have the wrong guy.”_

She’d convinced him eventually, with the help of his DNA map. Like most babies born in the Jovian settlements, he’d had his DNA mapped at birth, and it had been all the proof that was needed for the child support to come in.

He’d always known his bio-dad had money, because he’d never wanted for anything growing up, and he’d gotten access to a pretty healthy trust fund when he’d turned twenty-one. That money had allowed him to get all the schooling he wanted and to open up his own garage.

But never in his wildest dreams had he thought the guy who dutifully paid child support was a king.

And not even his wildest dreams’ wildest dreams would have included him ascending to the throne.

Caitlin tilted her head, studying his outfit.

He resisted the urge to tug at - well, everything. The high-collared silk shirt, the fine, snug pants, the long, sweeping overcoat, stiff with embroidery and bristling with buttons, and to top it all off, a giant, intricately worked platinum brooch over his heart like a target.

It had all been tailored perfectly, but it still felt like a bad costume. One that wouldn’t fool anybody.

“Very nice,” she said. “Excellent choice of color.” She reached out to fasten the button at his throat, and he dodged her hand. She frowned but let her hand drop.

“You look pretty,” he said.

She looked fancier than usual, and that was saying something, because he’d never seen her less than perfectly groomed, whether they were taking tea with the president of Europa or hiking through the mountains or touring a platinum mine.

She touched her intricately braided and piled hair, with tiny platinum snowflakes glinting in the shining red-brown coils. “Thank you. Have you reviewed the list I gave you? ”

“No, you do,” he said. “That’s a nice color on you. And the rocks are pretty sweet.”

She ran her fingers along the glittering diamond necklace at her throat. The black mourning ring on her left hand caught the light, drinking it in. “They’ve been in my family for generations.”

“Of course they have. Well, it looks good, is what I’m saying.”

A soft blush colored her cheeks. “Thank you. You’re very kind, sire. Did you get a chance to look over my list? Of candidates for your consort?”

“Yep,” he said.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“A little,” he said.

“Well, you have forty-four minutes until you’re presented,” she said. “It’s in your cuff.” She tapped his wrist and the thick platinum cuff he wore, light years ahead of the beat-up, second-hand aluminum cuff he’d had on Ganymede. “Use that time and go over the list again. You’ve met most of them already, over the past month. There are a few that weren’t available to meet with you before. Focus on those. I suggest committing one or two facts to memory to ease conversation.”

“I can make conversation, thanks. You know, I really did look at it. There are some men on there. And some enbies.”

“You do still identify as pansexual, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I do. But isn’t the whole point of a consort to, like, ensure the succession?”

“Oh, _children_ ,” she said, waving her hand. “Children are easy to come by. That’s not a concern. As you well know, so long as they bear your DNA, your heir doesn’t have to be your consort’s child. Though people do think it’s nice if they are.”

“Well, sure,” he said, blinking at her.

“The Cendrillite consort serves a much more important function than mere reproduction. They are the king or queen’s first advisor, their most trusted confidante.” She tilted her head. “This was all in the file, sire. I gave it to you a week ago.”

Okay, he hadn’t read that much of it. “How am I supposed to trust anyone if I’ve only known them a few hours?”

“The marriage itself can take place up to a year after the Heir’s Ball. You will have plenty of time to get to know them. To learn to trust them.”

“What if I just pick someone at random off your list and then call it off later?”

“I’m afraid the announcement at midnight is legally binding.”

“It’s batshit, is what it is,” he said. “It’s a crazypants archaic custom. The heir picks a consort at a ball and has to announce it that same night and then can’t change their mind? Even if the person they picked is mean or evil or crazy?”

She let out a sigh through her nose. It was a noise he’d heard from her a lot over the past month, when he pointed out things about dearly held Cendrillite traditions that made no goddamn sense. “For the past three hundred years, the ruler or their family has had a selection in mind well beforehand. This is a - ”

“Tradition,” he finished. “Yeah. I got that. But if it’s just for form’s sake, why are we doing it at all?”

“Because even if now were the time to start bucking tradition - which it’s not - ”

“Please send me a memo when it is, because I wanna get cracking on that.”

“- this is a tradition that’s enshrined in law. The heir must announce their choice of consort at midnight a week before their coronation. Without that announcement, the coronation cannot proceed.”

He thought, _Doesn’t sound so bad._

She reached for the button again.

“Come on,” he muttered, pushing her hand away. “I feel like I’m choking.”

She narrowed her eyes. “This isn’t an afternoon at the beach. This is - ”

“My official presentation to my people and my fellow rulers, blah blah blah, yes, I heard you the first eighty-four times.”

She dropped her hands and just looked at him.

Hating that he felt guilty for putting that look on her face, he stalked across the room and flopped onto a couch.

Staring out the window, he said, “I know it’s important. I know about image and protocol and tradition. But I’m not made for that shit. I’m a fucking mechanic from Ganymede with the grease just scrubbed out from under his fingernails. The only reason I’m sitting here, in this outfit that could buy and sell my whole business three times,  is because I’m literally your only option.”

“No,” she said. “You’re not.”

He turned to scowl at her. “Please. The king already had an heir, and three spares besides. If it weren’t for a faulty landing system, I’d’ve stayed in Ganymede my whole life and never even seen Cendrillon.”

“That much is true. But it’s not true that you were our only option.”

He sat up. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean that your father was … generous in his affections.”

His brows shot up. “He was a man-whore.”

She tweaked her skirts a little. “That’s another way of saying it.”

“How many kids was he paying child support for?”

“You have seven half-siblings, of varying ages and genders, scattered from Amalthea to Pasiphae.”

“Seven?” That, plus him and the four who’d died in the crash - “He had _twelve kids?_ Hadn’t he ever heard of birth control?”

For a moment there was a wicked glint in her eye, then she dropped her gaze demurely. “It’s really not my place to speculate.”

His neck was starting to hurt, looking up at her, and he remembered the rule about not sitting until you had the king’s permission. He wished she wouldn’t do that when it was just them, but they’d had argument after argument about it until he’d given in and let her do whatever the hell she wanted, according to whatever arcane rules made sense in her maze of traditions and protocols. He waved a hand at her. “Dost my ladyship care to pop a squat?”

She narrowed her eyes at him, but settled down in a chair, skirts arranged just so, back still poker straight. “If it pleases your Majesty.”

He snorted. “Okay, so if you had all those choices, then why did you go for me? The grease-smeared garage owner from Ganymede.” He cringed at the alliteration, and almost jumped up to pace the small room before he remembered that she would feel constrained to get up, too. “I never wanted to be rich and powerful, I just wanted to fix my machines and enjoy my friends and live my life.”

“I know,” she said. “And I’m sorry to have taken you away from all that, sire. But you are the best choice for Cendrillon.”

“How do you know that? You’ve known me a month.”

She leveled a look at him. “Do you truly think that?”

He opened his mouth to say _duh, yes_ \- but paused.

Caitlin, who kept a mental file on everyone they met. Caitlin, who seemed to know the answer to any question he came up with. Caitlin, who could neatly and quickly explain the background, the push-and-pull of any relationship from the political agreements between planets to the reason why two town’s mayors weren’t talking to each other.

Caitlin, who insisted that it was simply part of the job.

Would she or her bosses really have left a possible heir to the throne to chance?

“No,” he said slowly. “I’m starting to think not.”

She smiled a little. “Ten years ago, I became a junior assistant to the Royal Protocol Master. The first thing I got was a set of files, and instructions that I was to look after the people in them. Administer their trust funds, clean up their messes, and make sure they came to no harm. Did you know all your siblings got the same support you did?”

“Since I just learned they existed, no, I didn’t.”

“Three of them are dilettantes, living a life of leisure entirely on their trust fund. Two of them are constantly in monetary and legal trouble as they live beyond their means.”

Cisco blinked. Knowing how healthy his trust fund was, those two of his siblings must be living high as hell.

“Two of them live in utmost comfort, and have jobs that they work at simply to have something to fill their days. And then there’s you.”

“What about me?”

“You have a master’s in engineering, and you enjoy invention.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Yeah, so?”

“You could have gotten a job at any number of well respected firms. You could have spent your days tinkering in your basement. But you opened a garage. You pay excellent wages, you have regular internships for kids in the area, and you have the fairest prices and the best work in Ganymede City.”

“So?” he said again.

“That garage isn’t just productive for you. It helps others. Employment. Education. Services. That was a choice you made on your own, sire. That aspect of my duties, looking after the king’s offspring, was never just about making sure they were well-cared for. I was gathering information about the kind of people you were growing up to be, on the very much off-chance that one of you might have to assume the throne.”

“And I did,” Cisco said.

Her hand crept over to toy with the mourning ring on her finger, as it often did when the subject of the spaceship crash came up, even obliquely. “And then you did.”

He looked away from her hands and up to her face. “You really do think of everything in the Royal Protocol office, don’t you?”

She smiled a little. “I’ve been watching you for ten years, and you say you’re a humble mechanic, but you’ve always been more. I could have picked one of the others and at best, gotten a ruler who just floated along as a royal puppet and didn’t mind who pulled their strings. But I picked you.”

“Bet you regret that after a month of fights over protocol and titles.”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I’m more certain than ever that you’re what Cendrillon needs.”

“Really? Why?”

“When I took you around this moon, you talked to people. More than that, you listened to people. You asked intelligent questions, not just of me, but of everybody. And you considered the answers carefully and thoughtfully.”

For the first time, he realized that she hadn’t had to guide him around the tiny moon. She hadn’t had to arrange meetings with regular people who owned cafes instead of manor houses, who worked in mines instead of palaces. In fact, doing so would have been a giant pain in the ass. 

She could have kept him locked up here in the palace, and there would have been plenty to do and see and learn. But she’d made sure he met his subjects, high and low, and she’d been watching as he did.

“I’m really what you want for this place,” he sad. “Me.”

“I love Cendrillon,” she said. “I would do anything for her. But we are a hidebound place. We’re mired in pointless traditions. The government strangles on its own red tape while the people cry out for change.”

He gaped at her. “Of all people, I’d’ve thought you’d be fine with pointless traditions.”

“Traditions are there to serve us, not the other way around. Who better than me to understand that?”

He considered her. “And yet, I still have to pick a consort by midnight.”

“Sire, with all my heart, I believe that you have it in you to be great king. To bring Cendrillon out of the dark ages and into its rightful place in the Jovian political sphere. But you need to be firmly in place first.”

“You’re saying that to get to a place where I can change things, I’ve got to follow the rules, at least for awhile. Consort, coronation, the whole nine yards.”

“Exactly. Your ascendance to the throne must go by the book. Eobard and his cronies will take any excuse to call the legitimacy of your rule, and your policies, into question. This must be done right.”

He nodded, looking out the window again. Jupiter had set, taking its reflected sunlight with it. Cendrillon City glimmered in the dusk, lights blinking on all over the city. All those people, trusting in him. Or maybe not trusting.

Maybe just waiting to see what he would be.

At home - no.

On Ganymede, at this time, the atmosphere shield would be darkening. It was to simulate Terran night, even though nobody in Ganymede City had ever been back to the wasted wreck of what had been the human homeworld.

Here, they had a true night at least once a week, and they made it special. He was going to have to learn all the little differences like that.

He looked back at Caitlin. “So,” he said. “We’ll do it right.”

She smiled.

He lifted his arm and tapped his cuff. His screen sprang to life. He picked the file blinking and swiped through the faces.

“So tell me about these consort possibilities,” he said. “What exactly makes them such good candidates?”

“Political acumen, high intelligence, and family connections,” she answered without hesitation. “A lot of them are senators or senators’ children. Most are Cendrillites, but I included one from Io and one from Pasiphae.”

Places that were already close allies with Cendrillon, he filled in mentally. “Nobody from Ganymede?”

“The only possibilities are from families that have rather closer ties than I’d like with Eobard Thawne and his set.”

One day, Cisco reflected, he was going to have to learn just how hard Caitlin had spiked Thawne’s guns by scooping Cisco out of his garage and off to the Cendrillite palace.

“I also weighed scientific interests quite high when I was selecting them because it’s nice when you can share something with your consort.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Nice.” He settled his hand on the armrest, letting the faces of his possible consorts slowly wheel by in the air. “What if I like someone who’s not on your list?”

“The choice is ultimately yours, of course.”

“But you’d be pretty pissed.”

“I would offer my opinion, sire. But if your mind is firmly made up, I can certainly arrange matters.”

He tilted his head. “Can they say no?”

She blinked a few times. “They won’t.”

“I’m not asking if they will,” he said patiently. “I’m asking if they can. If they don’t want to be my consort, if they’re in love with someone else, if they don’t like my face. Is someone allowed to say no to me?”

“They are permitted the right of refusal, yes,” she said. “Which is why I recommend giving me your choice no later than eleven-thirty so I have enough time to speak to them and their family.”

“Half an hour doesn’t seem like much time to prepare for getting married.”

“It’s just the announcement,” she said. “As I said, the marriage can wait for up to a year.” She touched her ring again. “A number of people on your list lost family members in the crash, and naturally they can’t marry during the mourning period.”

“Not even a king?”

“Not even a king.”

Well. That was something.

“You already met a number of them in person, this past month,” she said briskly. “I’m sure you’ll recognize their names and faces as you review the list. During the ball, I’ll be introducing you to each candidate on my list that you don’t already know, and I’ll endeavor to give you at least ten minutes alone with every candidate before eleven o'clock. That gives you some time to consider your options.”

“Ten minutes with each candidate,” he said. “That much time?”

“I realize it’s not ideal, but it’s what we have to work with.” She paused and touched her ear, listening for a moment. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but I’m needed in the ballroom. With your permission?”

He started to wave her away, but he paused, remembering a lesson in protocol that had only half-stuck. He got to his feet and gave her a bow. “You may go.”

She gave him a quick, surprised smile and performed another of her deep curtsies before slipping out the door.

He sat back down, but instead of focusing on the list of candidates right away, he looked at the door for several minutes, thinking hard.

* * *

A little before 11:30, Caitlin made her way up the curving stairs to where she could see the heir, leaning against the railing, looking down over the ballroom.

“Your Majesty,” she said, curtsying.

He straightened up and gave her a perfect little bob of the head - not too curt, not too deep. An acknowledgement of her presence that maintained his own rank. “Your ladyship.”

“Very prettily done,” she said in an undertone, joining him at the railing.

“From the woman who drilled me in it for four hours.”

She glanced at him, but his tone was light and his mouth quirked up at the corners, so he was probably teasing her. She smiled back at him.

One of the things she’d noticed first - that everyone noticed first - was how charming he was. Everyone liked Cisco Ramon. Everyone wanted to talk to him.

Likeability wasn’t exactly priority number one for a king, but it couldn’t hurt, either. Her discreet polls showed his popularity among the Cendrillite people had skyrocketed, with only a few extremely traditionalist grumblers. His popularity would diminish, she knew. Right now, his story had a great deal of charm and appeal, but Eobard Thawne and his cronies would be hard at work pointing out how inexperienced he was, an outsider, not raised to the throne.

Time to worry about that in the morning.

“Are you enjoying yourself, sire?”

“Yeah. It’s a nice party,” he said. “Classy.”

She thought about pointing out that he should be circulating, speaking to people, showing himself. But he’d charmed everyone, and he’d spoken with everyone that she gently guided in his direction, including all the candidates, and he could take ten minutes to himself. Especially as he had yet to tell her which candidate he’d selected.

So she just said, “I’ll pass your approval on to the royal events office.”

“Do that,” he said absently. He’d looked away from the dancers and was studying the mural that swirled around the top half of the ballroom’s walls.

The mural portrayed a stylized depiction of the founding of Cendrillon. How it had started life as a barren, overlooked moonlet, settled by the poorest and unluckiest of Terran colonizers. The discovery of platinum and other high-demand metals in mines that were only supposed to yield cheap minerals. The canny decision to hide those metals, bargain for the land rights to their moonlet, and only then begin mining in earnest.

Like the abused stepdaughter turned princess in the old Terran story, Cendrillon had transformed overnight into a glittering jewel of the Jovian settlements, and the leader of the colony became its first king.

“What was Cendrillon’s name before the colony got control?” he asked idly.

“You know, I don’t remember,” she said. “Probably one of Jupiter’s minor lovers, like all the rest of the Jovian satellites.”

He grinned widely. “Jupiter above, have I finally found the one fact about Cendrillon that’s not at the tip of your tongue?”

She pursed her lips. “I’m sure I learned it, sire. Would you like me to look it up?”

He waved a hand. “No, I’ll do it myself, later. It’s fine.”

She decided to look it up anyway. After midnight. “Have you selected a candidate?” She rested her fingers on her wrist, ready to bring her screen to life if she needed the backup. Not that she would unless absolutely necessary, and even then she would step into an alcove. Open screens were rather gauche at a formal ball.

“Yep.”

“Excellent.” She would have been more than happy to discuss the pros and cons of each candidate, but if he’d settled on one, it would give her more time to get everything organized.

“She’s not on your list.”

Winds of the Great Red Spot, she’d been worried about this. But she smiled brightly. “Tell me who it is and I’ll tell you if it can be managed.”

“I’m sure it can be managed,” he said. “She fits all the qualifications. Family connections - I’m told her family has been serving the crown since colony days. High intelligence, political acumen - that especially.” He looked at her. “And I like her. We click.”

Caitlin shuffled possibilities in her mind like a deck of cards. Lady Iris? But the Wests served the law, not the crown, and were very clear about the distinction. Besides, she was engaged and would never agree to break it, even for her king.

Lady Kendra or Lady Cynthia might serve, although they had various complications in their lives that had led her to strike them from her list. It could be managed, through.

Please, please let him not have selected Dame Lisa Snart. She was a nightmare and her brother was worse. They couldn’t have that kind of mess so near the throne, not if they wanted to hold Thawne’s set in check.

He raised his brows at her. “Figured it out yet?”

She said lightly, “Please tell me you caught her name and that I’m not going to have to find her by her shoe size.”

“Hmm,” he said. “Interesting. What is your shoe size?”

For a moment, she couldn’t work out what he was saying and then her mouth fell open. “Sire. No.”

“Cisco,” he said. “It’s Cisco, remember?”

“You want _me_ as your consort?”

“You said you’d do anything for Cendrillon,” he told her.

“But I - I wasn’t - I never thought - ” She was stuttering. She hadn’t fumbled with her words like this since the day of the royal funeral.

“Is it illegal?”

“Oh, no. There’s actually a great deal of precedent. In 452 PS, Queen Calypso married her Royal Protocol Mistress, and in 535 PS, Prince Leonides married his mother’s Royal Protocol Mistress, and in 659 PS, the Royal Protocol Master was already the father of the Heir when Queen Magritte married him after her first consort died of the Ionian flu - “

He broke in before she could nervously recite all the times the Royal Protocol Master or Mistress had become the royal consort. “Is it improper?”

She twisted the black ring on her finger. “Right away, yes, it would be most improper. But in four months - “

He took both her hands, and she swallowed the rest of her words. "Look,” he said. “I know your fiance died in the crash. I know you’re still in your mourning period for him. I’d never ask you to do anything you don’t want to do on a personal level.”

She had to fight not to pull her hand with the mourning ring out of Cisco’s loose grip and press it against her chest, because that would be rude.

“But you said it yourself. It’s not about children or succession, it’s about the king having a partner and an advisor they can trust. I trust you.”

She stared at him, struck into silence. His eyes were utterly sincere.

“You think I can be a great king? I think I’d be lost without you.”

She pressed her lips together. “I - I need a moment. Sire. Cisco. Please?”

He let go of her hands. “I have a backup in mind,” he said. “But you’re the one I want.”

She almost forgot to curtsy to him before she ducked into the hallway, headed for a tiny receiving room.

She sank down on the couch, hands clenched in her skirts.

The consort? Her?

She’d spent most of the past month assembling that list, adding people and striking people as she got to know Cisco, to know what he needed and what he valued and what he liked. She’d been sure that he would be able to find the perfect consort on there. It had never crossed her mind that he might pick her instead.

She was used to a life in the background. She had never expected to be the Royal Protocol Mistress so soon. She had thought she might ascend to the position in fifteen or twenty years, when Tina retired, and spend the rest of her days moving in the royal court, arranging ceremonies and gently manipulating protocol in the name of politics.

And now Cisco wanted her as his consort. In the spotlight, a lever that the entire court would attempt to use if they wanted to shift the king’s will.

_I trust you,_ he had said.

She held her hand out, staring at the mourning ring.

The crash had killed Tina, and elevated her to this position too soon. It had killed Ronnie, and left her without the lover and partner and husband she’d intended to have.

The careful path of her life had been vaporized in the fireball of the _Accelerator._

She’d seized upon the necessary work of finding Cisco and bringing him back to Cendrillon to keep her getting up in the morning. But in a way, she’d been just following the broken and burning path because she hadn’t known what else to do.

Now Cisco was offering her a new path. A big and scary and alluring one. To be the king’s consort, to be in a position to change her home for the better. To shift the balance of power between the court and the people, to shed some of the shackles of the past, in a much more direct way than the Royal Protocol Mistress ever could.

To marry Cisco.

She didn’t know if she wanted it

She didn’t know if she didn’t want it, either.

“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered.

_Your duty_ , her mother’s voice said in her head.

It was a cold answer, but the Snows bred cold women, and it was the clear, bracing kind of cold that woke you up on a drowsy winter morning. She rose and went to the window, staring out over the carpet of lights that was Cendrillon City. Far away, farther than she could see, were myriad little towns and villages, all of them filled with people who deserved a better Cendrillon.

Yes.

Her duty.

She had been doing her duty to the crown since she was a child, following in her mother’s footsteps. If this was what the crown wanted of her, then she would do it.

If this was what Cendrillon needed from her, she would be glad.

* * *

When Caitlin stepped out of the room, it was to see a cluster of people on the balcony at the end of the hall with Cisco, laughing and talking. He smiled, talked, and laughed along with them, no indication that he felt at all awkward in their glittering presence.

She watched a minor lord touch his arm lightly, a duchess laugh brightly at something he said. Of course, he would be their king in a week’s time, and a king was always witty and attractive, but Cisco would be both with or without the crown.

A simple mechanic indeed, she thought tartly. He could say that all he wanted, but the truth was, he belonged anywhere he put himself.

Was one of those people his backup? The person he meant to marry if she told him no?

She swallowed back something that felt too close to jealousy and took a step forward. He noticed the movement and looked past his companions for a moment, catching her eye. He said something to them and excused himself from the circle, bowing in return to their bows and curtsies.

A few looked after him, but whatever he’d said provoked no question. Everyone knew that Caitlin had been dedicating all her time to him in the month since she’d brought him back from Ganymede, and everyone also knew that she would be arranging the match.

Nobody had the faintest idea what was to come.

He closed the door behind him and turned to her. “Well?”

She curtsied, spreading her skirts wide. But it wasn’t the low, reverent curtsy she had given him ever since they’d first met. It was shallower, the head dipping less, the spread of skirts held more briefly.

It was the kind of curtsy that only a consort could give to the crown.

He didn’t know all the secret language of reverences yet, the precise and careful establishment of rank, and how they could be used to grovel or insult or even mock. But from the flicker in his eye, he noted the difference, and that sent the message she intended.

She rose out of the curtsy and asked him, “Did you read the section on proper forms of address for your consort?”

He cocked his head, smiling at her as he recited, “The court addresses the ruler’s consort as ‘your grace,’ and speaks of them as his, her, or xir grace.“

She blinked and smiled. “Do you know what the ruler calls their consort in formal address?”

“My trust,” he said. “Or the crown’s trust. And you address me as, 'my crown.’”

“Yes.” She found herself fussing with her black ring, and paused, looking at it. “Do you wish me to take this off?”

“I thought nobody could end the mourning period early.”

“For family members. Ronnie wasn’t - we weren’t married yet.”

“No,” he said, firmly. “Leave it on.”

She looked up. “But -  ”

“He was your fiance and you loved him,” he said. “Just because you’re marrying me doesn’t change that. Leave it on. We’ll marry when you’re ready.”

Her eyes burned. She pushed the ring back to the base of her finger.

There would be talk about that ring. She found herself formulating answers. _His Highness respects the suffering his people underwent. He has no desire to forget the past._

Yes. Handled in the right way, this could be very much to Cisco’s political advantage.

The ring still felt good on her finger. Warm and solid.

“So, what now? Do we just - ” He waved at the doors.

She checked the time. “Three minutes to midnight. It’s just enough time for us to walk down the stairs to the royal dais. The herald will make the announcement when we’re there.” She brought her cuff to her mouth. “Gideon?”

“Yes, my lady?”

“His Majesty has made his choice of consort. He will be marrying Lady Caitlin Snow.”

After a shocked pause, Gideon’s quiet, “Very good, my lady,” in her ear told her all was well in hand.

She ended the call and said, “She’ll be ready for us.”

Cisco held out his hand. “Shall we?”

She started to step back, as she had for the past month, and then thought, _No, I should take it._

She would walk at his side down the grand, sweeping staircase, not behind him, and that alone would send a signal to the court before a word was said.

She put her hand in his, feeling it close warm and firm around hers. She swallowed hard, waiting for the heat of the spotlight.

Before he approached the doors, he said, “So, my trust.”

“Yes, my crown?”

“What do I call you in private?”

She looked over at him. He was smiling, his eyes soft. He knew what he’d asked of her. She let out her breath.

“You can call me Caitlin.”

FINIS

**Author's Note:**

> (A/N) if you’re interested in their outfits, I ran across these on pinterest.
> 
> https://i.pinimg.com/originals/f1/a5/1d/f1a51d9e5150106116e95975ac5abf32.jpg
> 
> http://amortentiafashion.tumblr.com/post/138822184855
> 
> Even though they’re based on traditional Georgian dress (the country, not the US state or the British time period), I thought they were perfect for space royalty.


End file.
